


we were almost lovers

by natromanoffs



Category: The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28710267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natromanoffs/pseuds/natromanoffs
Summary: hannah reflects on love and what could have been.
Relationships: Hannah Grose/Owen Sharma
Kudos: 9





	we were almost lovers

**Author's Note:**

> i got suuuper into my feels about these two tonight but it's been a while since i watched the show and so i've forgotten many of the details from canon so here have this vague vibey piece about them bc i needed to get these feelings out <3

Hannah’s dead. She knows this. 

She has to leave. So she does.

She leaves. But -- is it so wrong to want to stay tucked away in a memory with Owen forever? She almost does, but they all need her too much, and she can’t keep herself away, it’s too selfish. So she goes, she does what she can, and she leaves.

She’s at the bottom of a well. Well, her body is. It’s only distally that she remembers falling (being pushed?). Her head has split open. There’s that crack that’s been haunting her for weeks now, it all makes sense now, but in a terrible, jarring way.

Owen’s always been open. He’s a heart on the sleeve type of guy. He’s mentioned Paris a number of times, mentioned it being just the two of them. He’s never explicitly said that he loves her, or any confession of that sort, but it isn’t really necessary. He suggests leaving, just the two of them, weaves stories about fresh baked pastries and a small apartment filled with windows to call their own.

She realizes, now, the sheer number of chances she had to leave with them, the amount of times she could have echoed the sentiment, all the missed moments she could’ve slipped “I love you” into the conversation whether through those words or others. 

Look, she’d been burned before. Badly. There’s a sanctity about marriage, and its violation is an inexplicable kind of pain. She’d been scorched, had been hollowed out, thought she’d never love again.

Owen had come too soon after that. Not _really_ , not in the actual time sense -- enough time had passed since her marriage had shattered that, theoretically, her heart could have healed. But that was all in theory, because her heart was still full of bullet wounds, time be damned. 

Seeing him had felt like coming home, though not in a way she’d ever felt before. Meeting him had felt more _home_ than her entire childhood, than her entire marriage, and it scared her more than anything else. He was warm, he was comfortable, he was teasing but kind, and he allowed her to hope. 

Even after meeting him, she was reluctant to admit she could love again. It just didn’t seem possible, not after all the pain she’d experienced. Marriage was supposed to be final, it was supposed to be something sacred, something that lasted forever, and if that could be destroyed, then what was left of love, really? She’d held marriage as an ideal, it was something holy, something she’d truly taken hold of -- till death do us part, the whole ordeal. 

But Sam hadn’t needed death to do the parting, no, a younger blond woman did the trick just fine.

So, if marriage, the highest form of love and commitment, wasn’t sacred, if it could be broken, then how could any love be sustainable?

No, she hadn’t planned to love again, despite how much Owen lifted her spirits, despite how much joy she obtained just from being in his presence. 

He’d created fantasies, dreams of Paris and the things they could do, the sights they could see, an idealistic world that didn’t feel as far off as she would’ve imagined. 

But she held back. She could’ve given in, Lord knows she wanted to, could’ve added on details -- “We’ll get a cat,” she would’ve added, “black and mischievous.” “We’ll paint the walls yellow,” she would have said, “just to make the sun shine even brighter.” -- but she didn’t, because that sort of dream couldn’t be real.

Marriages fell apart and so no love could last but, god, she wanted nothing more than a lasting love with him.

Now, she curses herself for holding back. She understands it, of course, knows why she acted the way she did, but she wishes she would’ve just let go of her reservations for once, wishes she would’ve let herself get whisked away. 

It could’ve been real. She knows that now. She could have actually moved to Paris with him, could have actually spent days eating croissants and reading books beside him on a peach patterned couch while the setting sun streamed in through the window. If she had allowed herself to, she could have loved him. Or, rather, she could have made her love known, could have let him echo it back, could have given him the green light to put all those actions into tangible words.

She wouldn’t have married him -- that was ruined for her whether she wanted it to be or not -- but she could have loved him for as long as she lived. Could have loved till death made them part, could have had a love that was holy.

Could have, could have, could have. 

It’s too late, now. She’s dead. She’s given up the charade, she’s left the ghost behind. 

She remembers him in shades of orange and yellow. Remembers the way love filled her up from the inside and how the world always got warmer when he was around. 

She can’t reach him anymore, but she tries her very best to transmit some of that love and warmth to him. She’s not sure what she believes in anymore, thinks it might be a losing game, but she tries. Summons all of the willpower within her and loves him.

All she can do is hope he feels it, just a little. All she can do is hope all her love hasn’t come too late.


End file.
